A Ration Book Childhood

by Jean Fullerton

  Thankfully, his wound had healed well but it was still slowing him down, although this wouldn’t have been too much of a problem had he not lost Samson.

  He’d managed to honour most of the work he’d had in the book by calling in favours from his pals in the Shamrock League, but he’d carried out the local deliveries on his own with the hand cart, which had aggravated the wound and kept Jerimiah awake for two nights with the pain of it.

  But that wasn’t the only thing that weighed heavy on his mind. There was still no news of Queenie, and he was fast coming to the conclusion that although there was no doubt she would eventually be found, when she was, it would be dead under a pile of rubble.

  Putting aside his unhappy thoughts, Jerimiah ripped open the envelope in his hand and took out the letter.

  It had ‘Stepney Borough Council’ printed in bold black letters across the top, but the rest of the print was red. It was from the Rates Department and was the final demand for November’s outstanding payment. He studied the sum of £3 17s 9d for a moment then placed it on top of the other half-dozen outstanding bills.

  The pile of bills sat to the left of another stack of paper of about the same height, containing requests for Jerimiah to deliver a crate load of stock or move a family to a new address. And that was the rub. Without being able to act on the right pile he could do nothing about the left one. It had been problem enough with a horse, but he’d have scraped by, that was until he’d had to shell out thirty pounds in Thames Magistrate Court. As things stood, he’d be out of the yard and out of business by the end of January.

  He picked up the next envelope but before he could open it, Tommy, Jo’s fiancé, strolled across the yard and into the covered area of the arch. Like three-quarters of the country’s adult population, he was in uniform, which in his case was khaki battle dress and a greatcoat with the Royal Signal Regiment’s badge depicting Mercury, the messenger of the gods, pinned to the side of his beret.

  Seeing Jerimiah tucked away in his cubby hole, the young man strode towards him. Jerimiah rose to his feet as Tommy opened the door.

  ‘Hello, lad,’ he said, extending his hand. ‘Nice to see you home.’

  ‘Nice to be here, finally,’ Tommy replied, taking it. ‘I was supposed to be back yesterday but the line got hit by a land mine just outside Leighton Buzzard and they only managed to get it up and running late last night, so I caught the mid-morning train back today.’

  ‘Does Jo know you’re back?’ Jerimiah asked.

  Tommy nodded. ‘I caught her at the ambulance station when she finished at one and we had a bite to eat in the pie and mash shop before she went home to help her mother and Mattie. I said I’d meet her later in the Boatman before she goes to Midnight Mass.’

  ‘Well then, boy, you’ve got time to join me in a splash of Irish,’ Jerimiah said. He resumed his seat and, taking the lid off the zinc bucket beside him, he pulled out a bottle of Jameson’s. ‘Fetch those over.’ He indicated two enamel mugs on the top of the door-less dresser that he used as a filing cabinet. ‘And then pull up a seat.’

  Picking up the cups with one hand, Tommy dragged the straight-back chair over to the desk with the other and sat down.

  Jerimiah poured a generous measure into each mug, handed one to Tommy and raised the other. ‘Merry Christmas.’

  ‘And to you,’ said Tommy.

  Jerimiah took a mouthful, enjoying the smooth feel of the whisky sliding down, and Tommy did the same.

  ‘Any news on your mother?’ Tommy asked, crossing one long leg over the other. Jerimiah shook his head and told him how he and Ida had searched for her everywhere they could think of. ‘I’m sorry,’ said Tommy when he’d finished. ‘But if she’s not amongst the dead and injured then she might still turn up.’

  ‘Not if she’s buried under ten tons of rubble or trapped in a basement,’ Jerimiah replied.

  ‘The ARP will find her,’ Tommy said. ‘We once dug out one family who’d been buried for six days and after a cup of tea they were as right as rain.’

  Jerimiah forced a smile and didn’t point out that being buried for days in the cold and wet wasn’t something recommended for pensioners.

  ‘So how’s it all going?’ continued Tommy, glancing at the pile of bills.

  ‘A bit slow,’ Jerimiah replied. ‘But I’m sure it’ll pick up after Christmas when I get another horse. I suppose you’ve come to ask me about marrying Jo, again.’

  ‘As it happens, no,’ said Tommy. ‘I’m here about the horse.’

  Jerimiah gave a hard laugh. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve got one.’

  ‘No, I haven’t but . . .’ Leaning forward, Tommy rested his arm on the desk. ‘I have something that’ll be ten times more useful . . . my brother’s lorry.’

  ‘I thought you were renting it to the heavy rescue at Canning Town depot,’ said Jerimiah.

  ‘I was, but the government have sent them four new trucks, fully fitted and complete with lifting gear,’ said Tommy. ‘They wrote thanking me for my contribution to the war effort and asking me to remove my lorry from the depot as soon as I could. I got Jo to shift it to my mate’s garage off Bow Common Lane, but he won’t want it holding up his business. It’s a three-ton Bedford. Reggie bought it two years back from Maguire and Sons, the coal merchants. It’s mine now as he’s hardly going to use it in HM Wakefield and I’m offering it to you.’

  ‘Are you not going to sell it?’ said Jerimiah.

  ‘It’s not worth it,’ said Tommy. ‘With the domestic petrol ration being scrapped and the commercial allowance being cut it’s only worth a fraction of its real price and besides,’ he grinned, ‘I thought you’d have better use for it.’

  Jerimiah regarded his daughter’s fiancé coolly.

  ‘And what would you be asking for in return?’ he asked, as an image of Jo in her ambulance uniform flashed through his mind.

  ‘Well, the Town Hall were hiring it from me for three and nine,’ he said. ‘But you can have it for a straight two quid.’

  ‘Is that all?’ Jerimiah asked warily.

  ‘Well, if you could keep it in good order, I’d be grateful,’ said Tommy, giving him an artless look. ‘But as you’re Jo’s dad, I’m happy with two quid. What do you say?’

  Thinking of the three pounds he spent each week on fodder, Jerimiah extended his hand. ‘Done.’

  Tommy took it.

  ‘And I’m mighty grateful,’ Jerimiah added.

  Tommy and he looked squarely at each other for a second then they shook hands.

  ‘And if you’re lucky,’ continued the young man, ‘there might be a gallon or two in the tank so that should tide you over until you get your commercial ration book sorted out at the Town Hall.’

  ‘Tell your mate I’ll be collecting it on Saturday,’ said Jerimiah, mentally running through the jobs he could now say yes to.

  ‘I will, Mr Brogan.’ Tommy glanced at his watch and stood up. ‘I’ve a few errands to run so I ought to be heading off but I’ll be at yours in time to see you carve the turkey tomorrow.’

  ‘Turkey!’ scoffed Jerimiah. ‘You’ll be lucky. I think Ida’s managed to get a joint of lamb, so we might have a slither each if I’m careful with the knife.’

  Tommy laughed and then his expression grew sober. ‘I do hope you get good news about Queenie soon.’

  Jerimiah gave his future son-in-law a grateful smile then slapped him on the upper arm.

  Grinning, the young man turned but as he grabbed the handle of the office door, Jerimiah spoke again. ‘Tell me, Tommy, why did you not ask for my consent in exchange for the lorry?’

  Tommy considered Jerimiah levelly. ‘Because we’re going to be family sooner or later, Mr Brogan, and family don’t take advantage of each other.’

  ‘In nómine Patris, et Fílii, et Spíritus Sancti,’ said Father Mahon.

  Keeping her head bowed and her eyes fixed on the end of the bed, Ida crossed herself.

  It was just quarter past five and she was standin
g at the foot of what had been her three daughters’ bed. Ellen was lying in it now with Father Mahon kneeling beside it saying mass and giving her the host. Although it had been touch and go last week, when Ellen had developed a wheezy cough, it looked as if she would make it past Christmas, which for Michael’s sake was a mercy. There was no good way for a child to lose a parent but to do so at Christmas would be doubly cruel.

  She’d left Michael and Billy downstairs listening to Children’s Hour while she came up to Ellen with Father Mahon.

  He’d arrived half an hour ago, just as she had finished closing the curtains in readiness for the blackout. While listening to Father Mahon’s familiar voice run through the Latin prayers, Ida had sent her own prayer heavenward, asking that for Jerimiah’s sake Queenie be found safe and well. As she’d already said, for a child to lose a parent at Christmas would be doubly cruel.

  ‘Amen,’ whispered Ellen. She started to make the sign of the cross but on the downward stroke her hand rested on her chest. Hand! A bag of skin with bone inside would be more the truth, and the rest of her was the same. There was barely a shred of flesh on her and the skin was pulled so tight across her nose and cheeks it was a wonder her bones hadn’t sliced through. In fact, she was so frail Ida could move her with ease, but she was equally terrified that she would break a bone in the process.

  Leaning on the bed, the elderly priest tried to stand. Ida went to assist.

  ‘I’m obliged to you, my dear,’ said Father Mahon, as Ida hooked her arm in his and he struggled to his feet. ‘A cassock isn’t the easiest of garments to negotiate.’

  ‘Thank you for coming, Father,’ said Ida.

  Picking up his home communion set, Father Mahon placed his hand lightly on Ellen’s forehead, closed his eyes for a moment then retracted it.

  Leaving Ellen lying peacefully, they left the bedroom and closed the door behind them. They made their way quietly downstairs to the small hallway. Taking down the priest’s long overcoat from the hall stand, Ida held it out for him and he shrugged it on.

  ‘You know, Ida, I’m surprised she’s still with us,’ said Father Mahon, taking his scarf from his pocket and wrapping it around his neck.

  ‘It’s Michael,’ said Ida. ‘She can’t bear to leave him. I’d be the same if I had to leave my kids.’

  He nodded. ‘Any news of Queenie?’

  ‘I’m afraid not . . .’ She told him about their continuing search. ‘Of course, there’s a chance she’s lost her memory and is in a rest centre somewhere, but we can’t do any more until Friday.’

  Father Mahon pursed his lips. ‘How’s Jerimiah?’

  ‘Holding up,’ Ida replied. ‘But he and Queenie had an almighty bust-up when he collected her from court, so he blames himself that she went off.’

  The elderly priest frowned. ‘Well, we must pray for both their sakes that she is found soon.’

  ‘Amen to that,’ said Ida.

  ‘Will you be at church later?’ asked the priest, shoving his hands in his gloves.

  ‘Me and all the family,’ said Ida, opening the front door.

  Father Mahon’s wrinkled face lifted in a kindly smile. ‘And I’ll have the joy of seeing them together in a pew.’

  ‘Good day to you,’ said Ida as he stepped out into the chilly street.

  ‘And to you, my dear. And, Ida . . .’

  ‘Yes, Father.’

  ‘It’s a rare and charitable thing you’re about with caring for Ellen there,’ he replied. ‘In following the Lord’s teachings on loving one another you’re a humbling example to us all.’ He raised his hand. ‘God bless you.’

  He smiled and for a split second, as she gazed down at the old man in the fading winter light, Jerimiah’s face flashed through her mind. She tried to catch the thought that had caused it, but as the priest turned and headed along the street, it vanished.

  ‘Right you are, then,’ said Jerimiah, shoving his pencil back behind his ear and his order book in his overcoat pocket. ‘I’ll pick your delivery up Monday first thing and I’ll have it to you by ten at the latest.’

  ‘Thanks, Jerry,’ said Winnie Miles, a jolly round-faced woman of his own age with fluffy blonde hair.

  Usually at this time on Christmas Eve he would have been savouring a pint in the Catholic Club. However, since Tommy had left his yard three hours ago, he’d been steadily working his way through the delivery requests that had been sitting on his desk. Having just booked in the delivery for Winnie, he now had a full order book for every day next week and three for the following.

  He was in the back room of Miles of Thread, the haberdashers and wool shop in Ben Jonson Road.

  ‘Have a nice Christmas,’ said Winnie.

  ‘And you,’ he replied. As he turned to pick his way between the bales of yarn and racks of knitting needles, something caught his eye. It was a card of scarlet satin ribbon, about an inch wide, lying on its side on the second shelf. Reaching across, he slid it out.

  ‘Can you sell me a couple of yards of this?’ he asked, handing it to Winnie.

  ‘Sure.’

  She walked back into the shuttered-up shop and Jerimiah followed her. Holding the card in one hand, Winnie unravelled the shining scarlet ribbon and then measured two lengths against the metal ruler fixed to the edge of the counter. Taking a pair of shears from her apron pocket, she snipped it through.

  She wound it up and held it out for him. ‘I’m sorry, we’re clean out of bags.’

  ‘Don’t worry.’ He took it and then fished around in his trouser pocket for change. ‘How much?’

  Winnie raised her hand. ‘On the house.’

  ‘No, I have to pay for it as it’s my wife’s Christmas present,’ he replied, pulling out a handful of coppers and silver.

  ‘Thruppence then, if you insist,’ Winnie replied. ‘But I hope you’re buying her more than a length of ribbon or you’ll be in trouble.’

  Jerimiah grinned. ‘Don’t you think I know that after all these years? No, this is a little extra.’ He slid it into his inside breast pocket. ‘Thanks again and I’ll see you Monday.’

  ‘I think that’s just about everything for tomorrow,’ said Ida, surveying the pots and pans with peeled vegetables soaking in cold water, and the kitchen table which had every serving plate and dish she possessed squeezed on it.

  ‘I should think so,’ Mattie laughed, who was standing beside her. ‘I can’t imagine there’s much left in the shop.’

  ‘Well, there’s my joint of beef at Harris’s, for a start. He swears he didn’t have one but I bet he’s keeping it for someone who’ll pay him double, blooming racketeer,’ said Ida.

  It was seven o’clock on Christmas Eve and she and the two girls had been hard at it for the past three hours, getting the food they’d been buying, storing and preparing for the past few weeks ready for the family’s big day tomorrow.

  ‘What did you manage to get in the end?’ asked Jo, as she walked in from the back parlour carrying Alicia on her hip.

  ‘A scraggy shoulder of lamb,’ Ida replied, eyeing the roasting tin with a clean tea towel draped over it, ‘which I’m sure won’t stretch to the eight of us plus the boys and two toddlers, three if Stella doesn’t turn up.’

  ‘Well, we’ve enough potatoes and carrots to fill us up,’ said Jo, as she set the infant on the floor.

  ‘Not to mention the plum pudding and fruit pie with proper custard,’ added Mattie.

  ‘Well, you have to thank the girls outside for that,’ said Ida. ‘It’s their eggs that went into it.’

  ‘And don’t forget the spread you’ve made for tea, Mum,’ Jo continued. ‘There’s so much of it I doubt I’ll have to eat until 1942.’

  Mattie laughed, and Ida joined in.

  ‘Are those two boys still playing nicely in the other room?’ asked Ida.

  ‘Billy’s is but Michael’s gone up to sit with his mother,’ said Jo.

  Ida rolled her eyes and surveyed the table again. ‘I really wanted to have some more m
ince pies but I couldn’t—’

  ‘Mum,’ said Mattie, placing her hand on her arm. ‘It’s fine. Honest.’

  ‘The main thing is we’ll be together,’ said Jo. ‘And those who aren’t, Charlie and Daniel, will know we will be thinking of them.’

  ‘Yes, we will,’ said Mattie, a little too brightly. ‘Until they’re back home again.’

  Ida and Jo exchanged a look.

  ‘Tell you what, Jo,’ said Ida. ‘While I just have a quick check of the cold keep why don’t you put the kettle on?’

  ‘Good idea, Mum,’ said Jo. ‘And you,’ she looked pointedly at her sister, ‘can put your bum on a chair and rest up from all your dashing about.’

  Mattie laughed but did as her sister suggested.

  Leaving her daughters chatting in the kitchen, Ida took the large torch from the hook by the door and ducked behind the blackout curtain.

  The cold keep, where Ida kept her milk, butter and anything else that would turn in the heat of the kitchen, sat against the wall of the yard that never got the sun. It was, in fact, a double-sized butler’s sink that Jerimiah had brought home years ago. Its lid, which was half of someone called Sven Kristiansen’s gravestone, sat firmly on top and even in the height of summer it could keep milk fresh for two days.

  As she stepped out into the freezing air, the chickens, sensing someone in the yard, started clucking softly.

  An unexpected pang of sadness welled up in Ida’s chest. Although she’d have driven the Angel Gabriel to strong drink, Ida had to admit, despite her sharp tongue and explosive temper, Queenie’s disappearance had left a large hole in the Brogan family, and in Jerimiah’s life.

  Shoving the old slab of granite back, Ida shone the torch into the space below and counted the eight pints of milk. She checked the sack of potatoes was still upright and the seal was still tight on the butter crock then she repositioned the lid and went back inside.